Lifeline
by TrooperCam
Summary: Companion piece to DIYSheep's The Contract, Story has strong language and adult content.
1. Chapter One

**Author's Notes- Warning Time as quoted by the author who started this is the time we love best. This story contains for lack of a better word a whole ass load of violent scenes, strong adult language, and adult themes. If the topics of torture, abuse- physical, mental and sexual or any references thereof bother you, then I suggest finding another story to read. This is a companion piece to DIYSheep's excellent story The Contract. For those of you who have read the original draft of this story, I have taken it down to add new chapters and text based on changes to The Contract and the other excellent companion piece Exigencies by Priority. If you have not read The Contract, it would be a good idea to start there in order to understand some of what is going on. If you want to know what happens after both this story and The Contract, check out Exigencies by Priority.**

**LIFELINE** **Chapter I**

They came and got me in the early evening. Two men I had never seen before. New people frightened me and I tried to make myself smaller against the wall of the cell. The men, sensing my fear stopped. One knelt down near me, too close for comfort," Dr. House, I'm Special Agent Roberts this is Special Agent Matthews. We are with the FBI."

My heart was pounding so hard and so fast I feared it would leap out of my chest. They called me Dr. House; I hadn't been called that name in years. What sort of sick joke was Thompson playing now? Agent Matthews handed me my "cane", the pathetic piece of PVC pipe that doubled for my mobility aid. His face registered surprised as I immediately fastened the chain to my wrist. I struggled to stand up but I couldn't get my fingers to grip around the cane's shaft, they just wouldn't bend properly. I knew I was supposed to stand for anyone who entered my cell, but it was near impossible for me to move without help. I knew this breach would get me punished. Agent Roberts appeared with the arm cuffs and leg chains. Bile rose in my throat and my head swam as he placed the waist chains and leg cuffs on me.

"I'm sorry Dr. House," Roberts said," it's procedure. It will only be for a little while longer."

There it was again "Dr. House", this foreign name. I was no longer Dr. House; I was no longer Greg House. I was prison inmate 501473, a convicted murderer, a vicious, violent, dangerous, escapee robber, a threat to society. It seemed so long ago, was I ever a doctor? No, must not think of that. Must keep playing the game, focus on the now. Got to play the game, play the game and they will bring me back here. Must play the game.

Roberts placed the leg irons and waist chain on House, noting the stiff way the man held his body, as though Dr. House was afraid to show any pain, afraid to show any weakness. He noticed too the sway and saw House about to pitch over. He grabbed House around the waist and supporting most of the other man's weight he brought him out of the cell. He wasn't really surprised by the reaction the stiffness, but it bothered him nonetheless. He had seen the videotapes, see the beatings, the torture Greg House had endured for over five years. Thompson was an evil son of a bitch and Roberts hoped wherever he was in Hell, Thompson was receiving back triple what he had done to Dr. Gregory House.

When the FBI first reported to the New Jersey Department of Corrections the implications of what had happened sent shock waves through the entire system. Overnight, half of the staff of the prison was arrested, the night shifts and prison hospital staff hit particularly hard. Even in his fifteen years with the FBI Roberts had never seen an operation like Thompson's. The payoffs, the beatings, the conspiracy of silence. It was the most methodical operation Roberts had ever seen. When he looked over the mountains of paperwork and piles of tapes, Roberts couldn't help but think that Thompson could have taught the Nazis and Russians something about record keeping. Worse were the contracts. The clauses, the sub clauses, the penalties for violating each and by looking at Greg House Roberts could tell the doctor had suffered most of those paragraphs and subsections. All but the big one. God, what must go through a man's mind to suffer his life for someone else? Roberts didn't know whether to pity or admire Doctor House, so he did the most logical thing. He did both.

The agents led Doctor House to a black unmarked car. House was shaking violently and it was grotesque to watch him walk. The slow, laborious shuffle, of limp and leg irons, most of the man's weight…what there was if it resting against Agent Robert's side. The limp, Robert's knew was a medical condition compounded by years of torture…the leg irons because Doctor House didn't break.

The ride to the hospital was short; the agents led House in the back away from anyone who might have recognized him. House sat quietly, looking down as doctors drew blood. It was only during the physical exam that House acted up. He bolted from the table in a mad frenzied dash to escape, but there was nowhere to go. Two orderlies grabbed the man as he thrashed wildly only becoming quiet as the sedative ran through his veins.

The exams and labs showed why House acted the way he did. The big secret he was hiding. Broken bones, so many the radiology techs lost count. Doctor House had lash marks and burns to his chest, back, legs and feet. He was suffering intestinal parasites and for a man over six feet tall he was dangerously underweight. His teeth were chipped in many places and some showed signs of acid damage. His hands were mangled claws, crushed and reset only to be broken and crushed again and again.

----------------

Doctors James Wilson and Lisa Cuddy sat stunned in the agent's office, tears silently leaking from Cuddy's eyes. Laid out before them was House's secret. Piles and piles of DVD movies showing House being beaten, lashed, burned, his fingers and ribs broken repeatedly. James heard Lisa's muffled sobs as they watched fire hoses being turned on their friend, as dogs bit into House's legs and arms. The worst though were the videos labeled House-Special. These showed House pinned down as men took turns beating on his right leg and thigh. "He did this all for us." Wilson thought.

The agents showed them the contract. In red letters read their names. James Wilson, Lisa Cuddy, Eric Foreman, Robert Chase. Wilson's eyes lit on one name- Allison Cameron. There was a red line through her name and the words terminated. It was all so dry, so legal, but the implications were perfectly clear to anyone who saw the document. Cameron was the first, but Wilson quickly realized this was what all the secrecy…all the lies…the injuries…the fights and finally the pushing away were all about. House couldn't save Cameron but he had gone to jail rather than risk the rest of their lives. Cameron was dead and House had sacrificed his life and freedom to protect their lives. "Protect my life," thought Wilson.

He was so deep in thought he missed the agent's next words. Snapping out of his trance he heard the Agent say House was in the building, being held there for his own safety.

"Can I see him please?" Wilson asked hopefully.

The agent balked," He's not in good shape…" Wilson cut him off," Please I have to see him."

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The agent led me to an interview room upstairs. I was prepared for most anything but I wasn't prepared for the sight of Wilson sitting there. Oh Jesus H. Christ, they got Wilson. Somehow I always knew in the end they would get him. He hated me, everyone hated me, they won, and they got Wilson. In the end they always got what they wanted after all they got my father, now they got Wilson.

It was my birthday; they made a point to remind me afterwards as they dumped me back in my cell, the blood running down my throat, the pain crushing in my chest. As usual, I had heard them before I saw them, it sounded from the echoes off the walls like a small army, six or seven this time. As their boots came to a stop outside my cell I could heard the slow rhythmic tap of baton on shield like a modern day centurion and me, Daniel Boone, Custer, one against the multitude but unlike the Japanese there was no kamikaze to save me from this horde. I wondered briefly what strategy to use this time, prison rules stated all prisoners must stand when someone entered their cell, but standing here was a threat, either way I was fucked. As the door opened and the light attacked my retinas I stayed down curling in the vain attempt to present as small a target I could. The lead boot grabbed me, lifted me off of the floor, and shoved me against the wall. This time they made certain to bounce me off all four walls before throwing me headfirst out into the hallway. The world passed in a blur of shifting linoleum as they dragged me to an open cell. The guard handcuffed my arms above my head and another turned on the hose full blast. The cold water hit me full in the face. The guard took my arms down and handed me a bar of soap and a razor. This was unusual, but before he could change his mind I quickly showered and shaved. They blasted me down with the hose again before giving me a clean uniform…something was definitely up with this scene. They put the cuffs, waist chains, and shackles on and dragged me to the visitor's room. If Christ himself decided to pay me a visit, it would have been less shocking than what awaited me.

It was my father

He sat there, stiff backed in the chair. I stole a quick glance at him before ducking my head back down, my face was burning with shame and I can feel the heat in my ears. I can also feel his gaze, that intense look, honed by years of staring down wayward Marines, the look that said to his eight year old son that "no, a B wasn't good enough" the one that still judges me all these years later. I can see it in his pants and shoes. He has been retired for ten years, but his pants are sharp creased and his shoes have a high gloss…in other words they were everything I wasn't.

I'm sitting across from him, neither of us speaks…neither of us can speak. Finally, he breaks the standoff. He unloads on me, calls me a shame, says I brought disgrace on the family…but it is the last thing he says before he hits me that hurts the most…he tells me my mother is dead and it is all my fault. He stands, his frame filling all the area in front of my eyes. I never see the hit; even if I wanted to I couldn't have prepared myself for the blow. He's right handed, the open handed slap coming across my blind left side. My head jerks back. I am stunned but some small part of me burned with anger and I can feel my fists curling reflexively. It's too late though, he has stormed off to the door, raps once, and is gone before I can say or do anything. Tears threaten to spill from my eyes.

The guards take great delight in replaying this little incident for hours afterwards –slap- "You've shamed your family" -slap- "I have no son" -slap- It's their words but his voice I hear -slap- Fat Boy grows bored and brings out his nightstick. He pushes my head up with it so my eyes are meeting his. His eyes are glowing, mad with the excitement of what is to come "Did you know," he sneers in my face, "It's your birthday today? You know what that means?" Oh fuck no. I'm forty six, I think quickly to myself…or maybe forty seven…it doesn't matter; they will decide how many hits I get. The "one to grow on" is delivered of course by Fat Boy. His nightstick is a flash as it connects with my head, sending two teeth down my throat. I remember gagging and then I remember nothing at all.

I'm jerked back to the horror presently in front of me as Wilson clears his throat.

Try as he might, Wilson had the worst poker face and it was hard to see the shocked look on his face. I was embarrassed, ashamed, and quickly lowered my gaze to the floor. The agent led me to a chair and bolted my leg irons to the floor. Wilson again cleared his throat. He always cleared his throat when he was uncomfortable. We sat like that for seemed like an eternity. Like the time before with my father it was James who first broke the silence.

"Nice shiner, who'd you make mad this time?"

This was unexpected. My throat tightens and I swallow a few times, trying to clear the lump that has formed.

"Must have prison accessory. You wouldn't believe the doors I have to walk into to stay fashionable."

I couldn't believe how my own voice sounded, shaky, rough, unused. It was amazing what a knife and years of nonuse could do to a person's vocal cords.

God what cruel torture. Worse than the beatings…worse than anything. They were using Wilson now against me. God, why not just kill me?

"Greg," I flinched at the sound of my own name. Wilson had moved around the side of the table and now knelt down in front of me," Greg you're safe now. There's no one left to hurt you, to hurt me or Lisa or Eric or Robert. You did good old man. You saved us."

He put his hands on my arms. I can smell his aftershave, the one I told him countless times smelled like an aerosol pine spray. I'm shaking so hard I can barely concentrate. My hands are shaking; it's making the chains rattle. James pulls me towards him he's looking deeply into my eyes. I look away " It's okay Greg. It's okay." He's really real. Maybe just maybe this isn't a trick. Oh God I want to believe. Wilson pulls me closer. I reach out as far as my cuffs will let me and grab a bit of his shirt. Slowly, I lower my head to Wilson's chest. Maybe, I really am safe.


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter II**

Wilson paced the length of his apartment. Court would start in a few hours and he wanted a chance to see Greg before the proceedings began. This trial would be for the men accused of torturing and maiming Greg but the evidence presented would also be used in Greg's clemency hearing. A lot was riding on it. A lot was riding on how well Greg did.

James wanted to see Greg before the trial. He wanted to reassure House that everything would be okay, that after the long dark tunnel of the past few years, light was finally starting to appear. House was still in prison but he spent his days in the prison hospital. James received the reports of Greg's care. Food had been used as a weapon against House. Frequently he would wolf his food down; fearful it would be taken from him. His tortured insides couldn't handle the sudden shock and frequently he threw up his food. James knew this explained at least one aspect of the doctor's initial reports. Doctors had taken to giving House IV feedings, but even with the increased caloric intake, House was still seriously underweight. Then there were the surgeries. Multiple operations to repair the bone and ligament damage, some to the point of almost no repair. Greg had to be in a tremendous amount of physical pain, but he never said anything to anyone. James figured this was for the best. If House was being stubborn, he reasoned, it meant he was getting better. It had taken months to prepare the case despite the mounds of evidence. Months still to get Greg to the point where he was healthy enough to testify. It would all be over soon and Greg would be free to get on with his life.

-------

The nurses came that morning and handed me my suit. It was too big and the expensive cut looked cheap against my frame. I knew James had done his best though and I appreciated the effort. Agents Roberts and Matthews also came. Roberts was carrying a cane, a sleek, black, highly polished number. It was beautiful to look at. He held it out to me," You'll still need to be cuffed to me and you'll have the leg irons but there is no reason why you can't have your cane." I reached out for it but my hands just couldn't grip the slim shaft and it fell bouncing off the floor. Without a word Agent Roberts picked it up and placed it in my lap. Carefully, I gripped the ebony handle; it felt good in my hands, strong, sturdy, and solid.

We arrived at the courthouse. I sat in the back with Matthews while Roberts drove the car around the back to avoid the media parked out front of the courthouse. The doctors and nurses tried to keep the news from me but I had seen the papers and television reports. PRISON OF HORRORS and TORTURE the headlines screamed. I thought to the last time I was here and the headlines then. The courthouse looked the same but this time I wasn't a defendant I was a witness still I'm terrified, they say Thompson is dead, they showed me pictures of his corpse, but photos can be faked and people can be bought…maybe this is a test? What if they don't believe me? What if this is some sick joke? Where was Wilson?

Wilson met us in the witness room. There was a Sheriffs deputy in the room with us but we got a few minutes to talk. It was comforting to see Wilson and he tried in his Wilsonian way to calm me down, but I'm still scared. Matthews explained that for most of the trial I would stay in this room. Witnesses couldn't be in the courthouse for fear their testimony could be tainted. This was fine with me; I don't think I could look at their faces anymore than I need to already. James told me later that Thompson had kept meticulous records and those records were making up the bulk of the case. My testimony would help explain what set the whole operation in motion. Finally it was my time. The deputy took off my cuffs and leg irons and opened the door to the courtroom. It was exactly as I remembered. I didn't testify in either of my trials, I wasn't allowed to; this would be my first time on the witness stand.

"State your name."

"Gregory House". It hurt to talk; the damage and years of not talking had taken their toll as my voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

"What is your occupation?"

This question stuck in my throat. I was no longer a doctor. The medical register struck my name the day I was sent to prison. I remember receiving the letter telling me as such.

"I was head of the Department of Diagnostics at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

"Who was Rachel Thompson?"

Slowly, painfully, I told my story. Rachel Thompson was an active, outgoing sixteen-year-old girl. Six years ago she was brought to the hospital's emergency room with a dangerously high fever. Had she come to the hospital sooner, sought out treatment earlier she might have lived but the fever destroyed her brain and she died.

"What happened next?"

A few months later I was walking to my car when I was hit over the head and rendered unconscious. When I woke I was in a warehouse, my arms tied to the back of a chair. A man came out of a room and introduced himself. He called himself the liaison and asked if I knew why I was brought there. When I said I didn't I was punched in the stomach and chest. This went on for hours. The liaison said there was only one way to end the session that night; all I had to do was sign the document he gave me. In clear language the contract spelled out I was being punished for my sin. I was not to speak of my punishment to anyone nor avoid receiving my punishment or Dr. Wilson would be killed. I feared more for Dr Wilson's life than my own but I wanted to know what I had done, why I was being punished. All this got me was a blow to the face. "Sign the document or we kill Dr Wilson tonight." I had no choice. I signed. The men placed a hood over my head and dragged me to my feet, "Anyplace, anytime," one of them snarled in my ear. For months they came, usually at night but sometimes during the day. My brain spun as I tried but failed to figure out what I had done. When it appeared I was getting to close to solving the puzzle I would receive an extra special session and more clauses would be added to the contract. The main clause though always stayed the same. For a while the men didn't come and I figured it was over. I arrived home from work one day and two men grabbed me and dragged me to my bedroom. I saw Allison there. She was sitting on a chair bound and gagged. Her eyes lit on my face, she was crying, whimpering behind the gag. I was powerless. The men held me as they took my silver and black cane and beat her. I tried to look away, but they held my z/head and made me look as they beat the life out of Allison. They made me hold her as the lifeblood ran out of her. She died in my arms. "You know what to do now," one of the men hissed in my ear. I called Dr. Cuddy and the police.

The memories flooded back. The police trampling through my apartment, Wilson arriving pleading with me to let him help, the police station, the trial, the three years I spent being beaten, physically, mentally, sexually abused, tortured to the point of death. So many times I wanted to die, but I wasn't allowed to die. To die would to have ended the suffering. I was made to suffer. The irony in all this, I wasn't even Rachel Thompson's attending physician. I was called in at the last minute to try and come up with a solution to save her, because that's what I do; I save those that can't be saved; but not this time.

For hours I spoke, my voice nothing more than a ragged whisper, the tears running down my face. I didn't look at anyone the entire time I testified. When I finally looked up I saw Lisa and James. Tears were streaming down their faces. The jury was in tears. Even the judge and lawyers were having a hard time keeping composed.

They announced the verdict a few days later. Guilty on all charges. A few weeks later I sat at the defendant's table once again as a judge again decided my fate.

"Will the defendant please rise?"


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter III**

Wilson was the first to see something was wrong. Watching the judge read the clemency statement Wilson saw Greg go white and begin to hyperventilate. As House's lawyers congratulated their client slapping him on the back and pumping his hand up and down, James quickly moved closer to his friend's side. Greg pitched over and collapsed passing out at his lawyer's feet their shocked expression the last thing he saw before the darkness overtook him. James jumped the barrier separating the galley from the lawyer's area. He loosened Greg's tie and noted how cold and clammy his friend's skin was. Paramedics were on site within minutes and James rode with House in the ambulance. Silently, he begged his friend to regain consciousness.

It was several hours after admission that House regained consciousness.

"Hey," James said," There you are. Welcome back."

But House just stared blankly ahead. His left eye, always a little unfocused was even more so and there was a complete lack of recognition in House's face. James moved closer and waved his hand in front of House's face, the older man flinched slightly but gave no other sign he recognized the person standing before him. James felt the crushing feeling of panic growing in his chest.

"Greg?" No answer just the same flat vacant stare. It appeared that someone had replaced Greg House with a life size doll. James pushed the call button summoning a nurse." Get me a neurologist now! Something's wrong! He barked at the nurse. She scurried away quickly to get help.

Doctor Ron Griffin was on call that night when the page came in. He had just sat down to dinner, a rare occasion as it were. With an apologetic look he took the phone from his wife. Listening intently he gave the orders for an MRI. He turned back to find his wife holding his coat.

"I'm sorry honey. I'll be back as soon as possible." He kissed his wife and headed out to his car.

As he drove he thought over the case. Like many doctors he followed the case of Dr. House, the cripple convicted, then pardoned for murder. He read with shock the paper's accounts of the police findings and court proceedings. The more he thought about the case, the more he suspected the cause was not physical but psychological. Flipping open his cell phone Doctor Griffin placed a call to his friend Doctor Wayne Reilly. The psychologist listened intently and agreed to meet at the hospital. Doctor Griffin prayed with all his might the MRI would find a physical cause but deep down he felt he already knew the answer.

They were just going through the motions. Doctor Reilly let out the breath he didn't even know he had been holding. The scans showed what he expected they would.

Doctors Wilson and Cuddy sat in the psychologist's office. "This must be what it feels like for my patients." Doctor Wilson thought dryly as he shifted in the uncomfortable chair. Doctor Reilly broke the silence," Medically, there is nothing wrong with his brain. The MRI revealed some past trauma which we expected, but nothing that would cause the current state of catatonia. Given the circumstances of what has happened I suspect Dr. House is suffering from a type of self imposed catatonia. Psychologically dealing with the realities of what has happened is too much for his brain. Coupled by the stress of the court proceedings his brain has found a way to shut out, to disassociate from the rest of his body. Somewhere deep down Greg House is there but he has mentally blocked any thoughts and feelings to that person."

Lisa glanced sideways and watched James' hand grip the sides of the chair so fiercely she feared he would rip them off. Finding her voice she asked the inevitable question," Will he be okay? I mean, if he is in there, he can become…" The words died on her lips.

"Okay!" James practically screamed the words, "He's never going to be okay. Did you see him? What they did to him, his back, his eyes, his hands, my God his hands." James bent over, his head cupped in his hands, tears leaking from his eyes."

Dr. Reilly ignored the outburst and continued with his assessment, "With time and intense therapy he may improve to gain some functionality. The best course of treatment is inpatient."

"NO!" The words came out so harsh and loud everyone jumped," You're not locking him away. Not again, no way. He can stay with me. I can reach him."

"James, think about what you are saying. Greg is going to need around the clock care. What about work? Home?"

"I don't care," James replied angrily," Have you forgotten what caused this?" He spat out the words," He's like this because he was protecting us, our lives, he gave his life for us, for you, for me, for Chase, and Foreman. We owe him this. I owe him this." Wilson's tone was no longer angry but almost pleading. Cuddy knew it was senseless to argue. James was right. They owed Greg this.


	4. Chapter Four

**CHAPTER IV**

James arrived early at the hospital, a bag of clothes clenched in his hand. As the door gave a soft whoosh James saw Greg flinch before visibly relaxing at the sight of his friend. Wilson quickly scanned the room. Greg was sitting in the corner chair his cane across the lap, the television was on but Greg's eyes remained unfocused on anything or anyone. James' eyes lit on the untouched breakfast tray resting on the table next to House's bed," Not hungry huh? Don't worry we'll get you something on the way home." James placed the bag of clothes in Greg's lap but the older man made no move to remove them from the bag.

Greg had spent several weeks in the hospital, the doctors trying a combination of drugs to reach out to him, but Greg remained steadfast locked in the prison of his own mind. James had used the time to prepare for House's homecoming. James knew House owned very little since going to prison and what clothes he did own were now too large for his gaunt frame. James spent hours picking out the pants, shirts, and shoes he knew his friend liked, but James was not fool. He knew that colors and patterns alone weren't enough to break into Greg's defenses, but he hoped each small gesture would help crack Greg's walls.

James began getting Greg ready. As he removed Greg's shirt he couldn't help but inwardly shudder at the scars and marks on Greg's torso. No matter how he tried to ignore the obvious, James was reminded of the physical realities of what had happened every time he looked at Greg. It took awhile to get House ready but finally he was properly dressed. Wilson picked up House's cane and slowly wrapped his friend's hands around the top his cane before turning and moving towards the door. He sensed that Greg wasn't behind him and looked back to see his friend fixed in place, beads of sweat breaking out on Greg's forehead.

"Woah, Greg relax, relax old man, it's going to be okay. We talked about this. You're going home with me. It's going to be okay. Just relax; calm down everything is going to be okay." Slowly, Greg followed Wilson, his hand shaking slightly as he death gripped his cane. James smiled warily at his friend. He knew Rome wasn't built in a day; however it took just a trumpet's blast to bring Jericho's walls down.


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter V**

James watched as House shuffled around Wilson's living room. Shuffled was a good word to describe Greg's walk. House's stride was always shorter after the infarction, but now his steps had taken on a choppiness to them. Wilson realized sadly that in House's mind he was still chained and unconsciously accounted for the leg irons. Anger rose in Wilson. It was one more obstacle he would have to overcome in order to get his friend back. Wilson watched as Greg shuffled over to Steve's cage. The grey rat was happily running on his wheel, oblivious to the man watching him. Wilson looked for any sign, any glimmer of recognition that House remembered his beloved rat, but he found none. Steve McQueen, Wilson noted, also gave no indication he recognized House. The irony of it was enough to make Wilson laugh softly.

"Hey Greg," House just continued to gimp around the room," I'm going to go start dinner." Wilson headed to the kitchen. He decided to keep it simple. He knew House was still having trouble eating. Better to start with something simple he thought. While he prepared dinner, Wilson kept up a running commentary. He talked about work, his case, Cuddy, any topic he could think of. After being isolated for so long, Wilson wanted House to get used to ordinary sounds, to become desensitized to sudden noises, become less jumpy, and maybe, just maybe start interacting back.

Wilson brought the plates out. He saw House standing over by the window. He gently placed his hand on Greg's shoulder. The man flinched, curling up his shoulder in expectation of a blow. Wilson ignored the reaction," Dinners ready." He guided House over to the couch and the two men sat down. Mealtimes, Wilson knew were always going to be tricky. The doctors told him House had one of three reactions to food. He either ignored it completely, he grabbed it and wolfed it down causing his system to react violently or he protectively guarded his food, fearful someone would take it from him. House still had the catheter for IV feeding, but Wilson hoped that being home would allow House to relax enough to begin a normal feeding pattern. He was pleased when the man took the plate but he noticed that House protectively curled around the dish if Wilson moved suddenly or shifted in any way.

"Hey fuckstick," House felt the slight push on his back. It was enough to upset the precious balance he was trying to maintain. Juice sloshed out of his cup and all over the sandwich in his tray. He tried to ignore the Neanderthal behind him but the asshole just wouldn't let up. He had to take the shit from the guards and the warden, but he was damned if he was going to be the punching bag for the other inmates as well. He turned. The guy leered at him, "I hear you like to take it up the ass. That true you faggot, you little pussy, cause I know some guys who would love to get to know you better." House felt the sides of the tray dig into his hands as he gripped and swung slamming the metal tray directly into Brutal's face. House was tired of this. Just once he wanted to eat a meal without any interruptions, without someone fucking with him, or reaching over and stealing half the food off his tray, just once he wanted to remember what it felt like to be full again.

The blow was solid, but a limp and leg irons do not a good pivot point make and both men fell to the ground in a screaming mess of fists and food. The chow hall erupted in a frenzy as inmates clamored to watch the crippled doctor take on one of the biggest inmates the prison housed. Suddenly, House felt himself yanked backwards and hauled to his knees, two guards holding his arms behind his back. He looked up in time to see three other guards wrestle Brutal off to the hole and in time to see Boot Boy come into view.

"Well, what do we have here? Seems like someone decided to throw themselves a little food fight." For someone raised in South Philly, Boot Boy took his act straight out of Cool Hand Luke; all the way down to the sunglasses he seemed to wear 24/7. House knew it would be useless to argue, to even try and defend himself. Boot Boy leaned down and House could smell the menthol chewing tobacco the guard favored, "Since you started it. I'm going to give you a chance to clean it up. You have five minutes to eat every scrap of food off of my floor." He turned to begin walking out, "Oh, one more thing," he turned back, "You're also on report." This last sentence he punctuated with a long stream of tobacco infused saliva. It hit with a smack in the middle of the mess on the floor. Boot Boy turned to the guards, "make sure he gets it all."

Wilson finished his dinner first and rose to clear off his plates. He carried them to the kitchen. When he returned he was pleased to see House's plate was also empty," Good job."

The baseball game went into extra innings and James could feel himself drifting off," What do you say we get ready for bed?" Wilson got House ready for bed. He turned off House's bedroom light but left the door open. Before heading to bed he checked on House one more time. House was fast asleep; a slight rumble escaping as he gently snored.

It was around three in the morning when the stillness of the night was shattered by a bloodcurdling scream.


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter VI**

I could always hear them. The same concrete walls that so effectively kept one man from another allowed noise to bounce effortlessly off. Day or night, you could hear the talking, screaming, cursing, or crying of someone deep within the compound and everyday, three times a day; I heard the squeak of the cart as it moved down the aisle. Some people mark the passage of time by the rise and fall of the sun; I marked it by the sound of wheels on concrete. I knew better than to expect anything. If you don't expect anything you're not disappointed when you hear the sounds of your neighbor's cell window open, the sound of a metal tray being passed along. If you don't expect anything, the gnawing pain doesn't hurt as much as you hear the wheels squeak on past you to the other side.

The first thing I always see are the boots. The light fills my cell and I am blinded but I can always make out the outline of the black boots. It was a test and I always failed miserably. Despite my best efforts, I am physically unable to jump to attention like I am supposed to. This gets me a nightstick in the gut. I collapse, the hot tears streaming down my face. I see the boots. One draws back and kicks my plate across the cell. As I lie, unable to move, the boots trample my food into the ground. I can hear the laughing of the guards.

Sometimes, sometimes though I get the plate. I'm never fast enough and it's snatched away before I can finish. If I am lucky this will be all the torment and they will leave, but luck isn't on the side of Greg House. The blow lands in my gut and everything comes back up. The pain drives me to my knees. The boots approach," Eat it," the hot breath snarls in my ear. The sticky mess is covered in dirt, but I am grateful for every bite.

James bolted down the hallway following the sounds of Greg's screams. He threw the light on and found House huddled in the corner of the bedroom, his arms wrapped protectively around his knees, his shirt and face soaked in sweat. James crossed over and grabbed House's shoulders. The man's eyes darted wildly as he fought the demons only he could see. James grabbed his friend's head forcing Greg to look at him," Greg, Greg look at me look at me, it's okay, it's okay, breathe breathe, calm down, it's okay." The older man's eyes locked briefly on Wilson's and his breathing slowed to a steady hiccupy pant. Wilson drew House to him, his arms forming a protective shield around his friend. As had happened in the past House reached out and grabbed a bit of Wilson's t-shirt. The two men sat there for over an hour until House had sufficiently calmed down enough for Wilson to guide him back to bed. House fell exhausted into bed before surrendering finally to a fitful sleep. Wilson watched his friend toss and turn before heading back down to his bedroom to rest for a few hours before the whole cycle would start anew.


	7. Chapter Seven

**CHAPTER VII**

Dr. Lisa Cuddy sat at her desk, the phone pressed to her ear while she idly browed the personals section of the singles website she frequented. She looked up in time to see Wilson at her door, House following closely behind. With a smile she waved them in.

"Good Morning Dr. Wilson,"

"Morning"

" Good Morning Dr. House,"

No reply.

Cuddy wasn't surprised or shocked by the reaction but it still saddened her. Every time she looked at House she fully expected to see the arrogant bastard who thought nothing of commenting on her breast size or love life or the current lack thereof. But there was nothing, no fire, no spark, no sly twinkle in the eyes that showed her just how much House delighted in causing mischief, just a dull flat dead stare. Cuddy had been through a lot with her friend but to see the scared, limping, scarecrow House had become pained her to no end. She thought back to the days before prison, to how much House had changed even then. When the murder happened she, like Wilson, was swept along in the aftermath. She grieved for what her friend, her colleague had become in the months preceding the murder, for what he was now, but mostly she grieved for what she feared most, that she would never get her friend back. As quick as these thoughts came, she tried to push them out of her mind. Focusing her attention on the two men before her she turned back to Wilson.

"How's it going?"

"It's…going…well." Cuddy motioned Wilson and House over to the chairs in front of her desk. James was a terrible liar. Cuddy could see for herself the strain the constant round the clock care was causing on Wilson. His cheeks, normally clean shaven, had more than a hint of stubble on them and as Cuddy noted darkly, if the bags under Wilson's eyes got any larger they would have designer labels attached.

They had talked before about options. It felt weird, sitting there in James' apartment discussing House while he sat less than five feet away. The whole time, Cuddy expected House to turn and cut the discussion short with one of his patented trademarked barbs, but there was nothing. The man sat silently on the couch his gaze fixed and unfocused off in the distance. In the slightest of moments James admitted his fears and frustrations, conceding briefly the chance that House was too far gone, and maybe they should consider placement options. It was just a hiccup in time though, as quick as the thoughts were spoken they were quickly pushed aside. House never once avoided his duty, for James and Lisa to do so would be an affront to everything the man had gone through. Still, it hung there like the asked question, "What if House never got better again?"

Wilson and Cuddy sat and talked for awhile. It was obvious to everyone that Wilson would eventually have to return to work. The question than became what to do with House during the day.

"The check arrived yesterday, paying for an aide wouldn't be hard, but finding someone and someplace is the question."

House had received a compensation check from the State of New Jersey for his imprisonment. The amount was sizably larger due to the nature of his confinement. Wilson had also taken steps to sue Thompson's estate for damages. He was also working to have House's medical license re-instated. He knew, in light of his friend's current condition that this was going to be the most uphill battle. James' hope was that once Greg became healthy he could resume practicing medicine again, but if he didn't, James was going to make damn sure his friend was taken care of.

It was Cuddy who came up with the answer to the more immediate question of what to do with House during the day. Privacy would be of utmost importance for House. Ever a proud man, he had borne six years of torture, there was no way he would want anyone at the hospital to see him in his current condition. The room, Cuddy suggested was a storage room off of the main childcare center. It was quiet, semi-secluded with little open access giving Wilson a place to keep his friend and allowing House the privacy he so rightly deserved. "He could stay there with an aide. You would be close by if…" Cuddy's voiced trailed off unable to say what both were thinking. She looked at Greg who at that moment was gazing directly over her left shoulder at something in the distance. Cuddy fully expected him to turn and snark he didn't need a babysitter…no House sitter for House, but nothing, just the same, flat, unfocused stare. It broke her heart all over again.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Chapter VIII**

His arms hurt.

He was just sitting there, staring at the same page of the same journal he had tried to read for the past few days when the bell chimed. For most people, the friendly ding of the email notification was a welcoming sound. For House, it usually meant trouble. He couldn't ignore it, he had tried in the past, but they were patient to a point and when after the first two hours and three notifications went unheeded, they appeared at his door. He had gotten a swift and painful lesson in trying to avoid his responsibilities.

Slowly, he walked to the computer, his blood like ice in his veins. He hoped that tonight wasn't one of the nights that for once it was a junk email or a note from Wilson or Cuddy, but he knew better. The email was three words long.

Answer Your Door

House let out the slow shaky breath he hadn't even been aware he had been holding and placing his cane on the desk he gimped over to the door. They were there, three of them this time.

"Good Evening Dr. House."

This was strange. There were usually no words said, no false exchange of pleasantries. House nodded once to the men. Even if he wanted to he couldn't speak, his throat and mouth refused to unlock enough to allow him to even form words. Quietly, he walked between the men out to the car. Once inside the darkened sedan all pretenses dropped as the men shoved his head inside a bag. House knew what was coming, he knew where he was going, but order, decorum, and protocol must be maintained. The car, the bag, it's all how business is done.

He's jerked back to consciousness as the slight movement sends fresh waves of pain down his arms. This wasn't the first time his tormentors had used this technique, but repetition does not make it any more bearable. He's hanging a few feet off the ground, his hands tied behind him, his arms pulled back supporting all of the weight of his body. It's a classic Inquisition torture position and one favored years later by the North Vietnamese. House sniffed softly to himself. He was 16 when the war ended, far too young to have experienced the realities of battle firsthand, but someone had, and they had learned well.

In the distance, he could hear the group of them. There were five or six distinct voices. Greg couldn't make out any one voice but he heard the sounds of cards and poker chips and smelled the sweet scent of alcohol and cigar smoke. He wasn't allowed to look up; he couldn't really, the pressure on his arms and chest was unbearable as it was and he fought the crushing pain as his body pressed against his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs, making the outside of his vision dance with black spots. Instead he focused his eyes somewhere on the middle part of the ground in front of him. To distract himself, he counted the cracks in the concrete. They weren't that far off and every so often Greg would catch a glimpse of one of the men staring at him. No matter how Greg tried to avoid his eyes it seemed the man wanted House to know he was looking at him. House's stomach twisted in anticipation. This wasn't an ordinary game. He was the prize and this man was making it clear he was going to win.

He must have passed out again. The man was now next to him and House could smell the stink of sweat, cigar smoke, and cheap alcohol. It was enough to make him want to vomit, so he did. "Take him down boys" House is cut from the rafters and as he pitches forward, two men reach out and grab him before he falls to the floor. His arms are on fire as the dual pain of the torn tendons and ligaments collides headfirst with the pain of the blood rushing into his numbed arms and fingers. He bites back a scream as they drag him to the table and push him facedown on its rough wooden surface. His arms are twisted out to the sides and chained to the table as pain ricochets through him. "Leave us now." House hears the footsteps as the men leave the room. The man crosses over to House and with one move rips House's shirt off. It is the blue one, the one Cuddy got him for his birthday, the one she told him brought out his eyes. House suddenly realizes what is about to happen and begins frantically pulling at the restraints that keep him pinned to the table," Now now we can't have any of that," but House ignores him as he works fruitlessly to try and free himself. Enraged, the man lifts House's head and slams it back against the table. As darkness falls, House hears the man whisper in his ear," Don't worry, the first time is always the hardest."

When they dump him back into his apartment hours later he crawls to the bathroom, turns on the shower as hot as it would go, climbs in, and stays till the water runs cold.

Wilson hears the thumps, the one two pounding of feet and then body on the floor. He knows what this is; House has gotten out of bed again. Silently, Wilson prays House will just curl up in the corner and go to sleep. He will be there in the morning, shivering, but semi-rested. It's not to be tonight and Wilson can hear the muffled beginnings of a nightmare. Pushing back the covers he heads out to House's bedroom steeling himself for the sight he knows will greet him. House is indeed against the corner, pressed small into the space, his hands shoved into his eyes as though he is trying to wipe from his vision the scene playing in his head. It is a familiar sight, one that plays out at least every other night.

For Wilson, the days could be classified in one of three categories. There were great days, good days, and bad days. A great day was a day sadly few and far between. Unlike most people Wilson defined a day as beginning in the night. He would listen for the soft muffled sobs that told him House was about to descend into nightmares and would slip into the room. If he was lucky he could cut them off at the knees, his presence enough to comfort House and allow him to sleep soundly. House sleeping soundly meant Wilson could also sleep and sleep was something both men desperately needed. A good day meant Wilson wasn't as quick on the draw and House would be in the midst of a nightmare by the time James arrived. Wilson would sit by his friend's side until House's defenses unfurled and his mind allowed him the peace he so eagerly sought. House would reach out, grabbing at Wilson's clothes and fall into a fitful sleep. Usually Wilson would have to stay like this for at least two or three additional hours before he could leave to rest the remainder of the night. If Wilson was honest with himself he would say that there were more bad days than good and far more than great. A bad day meant House was in a full blown nightmare, one that no amount of coaxing could rouse him from. Time was the only salve and Wilson spent hours on the floor of House's bedroom as he rocked and cried screaming as his brain replayed the images over and over like a movie loop.

Bad days didn't just happen, they were triggered. Wilson spent a lot of his time trying to figure out the triggers, trying to know what to avoid, knowing what would allow Greg's tortured mind peace even if just for a little while. Ironically, had it been anyone other than his friend, this case would have been exactly the sort of puzzle House would have delighted in. But, it was Jimmy who was left to sort and figure out the pieces.

They were watching a baseball game; Red Sox versus Yankees. House was an avid Yankees fan contrary to the comments he made to Cuddy or anyone else. James had learned his secret when he overheard House buying season tickets from a broker years earlier. Wilson, ever House's foil, was an avid Red Sox fan. They were sitting watching the game, or Wilson was; House was half gazing at the television half at a spot somewhere between the couch and the television, a forgotten bottle of beer in his hands. Usually a ball game was a chance for House to show his encyclopedic knowledge of RBIs, strikes, batting averages, and ERAs. Wilson instead filled in the blanks commenting on the pitching speed and batting swings of the various players. The game wasn't going well for the Red Sox; the Yanks were giving the Sox a violent whupping leading in the bottom of the seventh by a score of 10-5. The Sox's lead hitter was up to bat, he was 0-2 in the game but as the breaking ball streaked across the plate he swung and cracked a hard line drive at the right field line of Yankees Stadium, the ball had enough momentum to dip into the upper reaches for a 2 run homerun.

"YES!" Wilson jumped out of his seat in celebration. Maybe, looking back it was too loud, too sudden, but for whatever reason the sudden movement freaked House out and he jumped spilling his beer and all the snacks all over the couch. Wilson was immediately brought back down to earth by the feel of Heineken on his arms. He looked over at the mess Greg had made and was immediately mad. Not so much at the mess, a mess could be cleaned up, but because he really truly believed that Greg was used to everyday ordinary noises. It was the reaction that bothered James and coupled with the lack of sleep was enough to make even the normally unflappable cancer doc mad.

"Jesus Fucking Christ Greg, look what you did!"

Wilson headed to the kitchen to get a cloth to clean up the mess. What he failed to see was the shocked look on House's face. In an instant Greg's face went from blank and impassive to wild and as Wilson was collecting the cleaning supplies, Greg was frantically making his way to the front door. Wilson returned with the cloth in his hand in time to see House pawing at the front door, desperately trying to unlock the bolt that kept him in. Wilson dropped the cloth and ran across the room. Grabbing House's arms he pinned his friend to the door while House thrashed and squirmed desperate to be away from this new threat.

"Greg I'm sorry…I'm sorry…I'm sorry…look at me…look at me…I'm sorry…I didn't mean to yell…Greg calm down…breathe…breathe…calm down…I'm sorry."

House stopped thrashing and his breathing took on a ragged quality as he hiccupped and gulped for air. He slid down the door and curled into a ball, drawing his legs to his chest, his hands tucked under his armpits. Wilson grabbed House into his arms holding him while his friend shook and panted. Finally, House's arm reached out and grabbed the front of Wilson's shirt. Still holding on, Wilson managed to get House to his feet and guided Greg over to the couch. Wilson knew what to expect. He idly wondered if two sleeping pills would be enough to keep Greg calm that night, but mentally he prepared for the inevitable. Life for Wilson and House was a series of progression and setbacks. For every step forward, House took two backwards, slipped off the cliff, and was swept down the river. At least Wilson had one more piece of the puzzle to work with.


	9. Chapter Nine

**CHAPTER IX**

Wilson thought he had all the bases covered, gone over every instruction a millions times until they were crystal clear. He thought he chose the right person, vetting the list down till he found the ideal candidate. When all was said and done Wilson noted, what was it they said about best laid plans?

It was important to James he find the right person to watch House. House's sense of security was so fragile Wilson feared any setback would send him spiraling into the abyss of his own mind. Cuddy started the process, collecting recommendations and referrals, drawing on her extensive list of resources till she came up with a list of the best applicants. Wilson then took over attacking the interviewing process like a man possessed. There was something to be said for his friendship with House, the man certainty knew how to interview, and Wilson while in awe of the brisk way House would dispatch of an applicant had learned well. His questioning, given under an intense brown eyed stare, would make even the worst Supreme Court Senate Confirmation Hearing look like a walk in the park in comparison. Cuddy had commented rather wryly that if James spent as much time vetting his wives as he did aides he would probably still be married. Finally, the pool was narrowed down to one.

"So we are very clear? Do you have any questions for me before I go?" A shake of the head was all the answer he got. Turning to House he gave the man a quick hug," Have a good day. I'll be back later." Wilson gave one last glance at Greg and his helper Thomas. All day, Wilson had a sick feeling in his stomach and he snuck downstairs often to the childcare center to check things out. He glanced into the room and every time he was reassured by the sight. House shuffled around the room or stared out the window while Thomas kept up a one sided stream of conversation.

As time passed Wilson became more comfortable with the arrangement. House seemed secure and the Wilson was secure knowing that things were under control. House had his moments, but for the most part the arrangement worked well.

Or so he thought

"Dr. Wilson," the voice on the other end of the phone was rushed and breathless. Wilson felt his throat drop into his stomach," You need to get down here. There's a problem down here with…" Wilson dropped the phone, shot out of the office and raced down to the childcare center. What he saw chilled him. The room was in disarray, furniture tossed about. On the couch Thomas sat with an ice pack pressed to his face, two of PPTH's security guards stood over him.

"Dr Wilson," Susan the head of the childcare center appeared next to James," Dr. House had an episode. He just freaked out. Thomas tried to control it but it just got out of control."

"Where is he how?"

"Emergency Room"

Wilson sprinted down the corridor, doctors, nurses, and patients all wisely getting out of his way. Few people were used to seeing the normally unflappable Dr. Wilson in such a state. Wilson arrived at the Emergency Room. His eyes lit on House and the panic in his gut quickly turned to anger. House was lying on a gurney, leather straps attached to his wrists and ankles. His eyes were closed and Wilson realized he was sedated. Wilson crossed over to the bed and began to undo the straps on House's wrist.

"You can't do that doctor!"

Wilson rounded on the guy and grabbing a hold of the man's shirt Wilson shoved the guard up against the wall.

"Just try and stop me," Wilson growled at the man, the other guard moved quickly to help his buddy. " Wilson!" Cuddy's voice cut through the room. Turning to the guards," You can all go thank you. Doctor Wilson and I have it from here." The guards left the room; one cast murderous glances at House and Wilson and muttered audibly that House wasn't the only crazy bastard at the hospital.

"How is he?"

"Fine for now, asleep. What the hell are people thinking putting him in restraints?" Wilson's voice rose almost to a shout," Imagine what is going to happen if he wakes up and sees himself like that again!"

This wasn't the first time Wilson had found his friend restrained to a bed. Shortly after the breakdown he had gone to the hospital to visit. He found House, lightly sedated with his arms tied to the bed with soft cuffs. House wasn't even aware of Wilson's presence. Wilson watched as he tugged futilely at the restraints on his arms. For over an hour he tugged, first on his right side, then on his left. Finally, with a sigh he gave up and laid back against the pillow, a defeated look crossing over his face.

Legally, Cuddy understood the need for the restraints, but emotionally she saw Wilson's point. Crossing to House's right side she began to remove the leather straps from his wrist. Wilson did the same to the left. Glancing at Wilson Cuddy could see the relief written all over the man's features.

"I'll stay with him until he wakes up." Cuddy cast one last glance at House's supine form before patting Wilson gently on the arm and leaving. Wilson sank down into the ER's hard chairs and waited for his friend to wake up. As House slept Wilson went over the latest bit of puzzle. House's episodes didn't have an outward reaction. He typically reacted inwardly flashing back to an incident in his mind. This was the first time he had struck out and Wilson noted sadly the results were pretty predictable. It seemed to Wilson that whatever House was reacting to, he was also attempting to fight back against. Wilson only hoped that this disastrous episode wouldn't set that fight instinct back and the next time it happened, everyone would be better able to deal. Wilson also realized what had caused House to react the way he did. Something had freaked him out that much was clear. Thomas had tried to calm him down but House was inconsolable. At some point Thomas must have grabbed or reached out at House. The effect on House was akin to putting napalm on a campfire. As House physically and mentally reached for control, he was met with resistance. Instead of backing down, he fought back, leading to the current predicament. Wilson's only hope was that this wasn't House's only attempt.

Thomas quit and once again Wilson found himself in quandary. He brought House to work with him, sticking him in a chair in the corner of Wilson's office, while Wilson once again pored over applications. The one Wilson chose, was one he had initially given a lot of attention to but passed over. Something though told him to give the application a second look.

Not surprising House was afraid of the room. He stubbornly refused to move when Wilson brought him downstairs, his blue eyes silently pleading with James, a soft whimper escaping from his lips. Wilson was adamant and finally House relented.

"House this is Clarence. He's going to look after you…like a bodyguard," Wilson added the last part hopefully, but House gave no indication he even heard or was aware of the other man's presence. House shuffled over to Clarence, poked him sharply in the stomach and shuffled off. Clarence and Wilson looked at each other, confusion written all over their features," What do you suppose that means?" Clarence asked

"I…guess…it means he likes you."

Clarence was a big man, everything from his hands, to his neck, to his feet was oversized. He stood nearly seven feet tall and was a solid mass of rippling muscles, but he possessed a gentleness that immediately put Wilson at ease. Clarence understood House. While Wilson was the only person House was willing to let grab him or hold him, Clarence knew though, there were times he needed to take control of the situation if House got upset or panicky. He never challenged House's sense of security; instead he backed off giving House the space he needed to calm down or until Wilson arrived to take control of the situation.

It was Clarence who figured out the key to keeping House calm-distractions. Not surprising, Wilson noted dryly. House was nothing more than a six foot two inch child, toys and games were his favorite things. Wilson brought House every trashy and tacky celebrity magazine he could find on the racks and Clarence would dole them out during the day. Wilson would come in after work to find House staring at a US Weekly or People magazine while Clarence dozed on a nearby couch.

Clarence was a godsend, Wilson couldn't deny. With Clarence in tow, House began to venture beyond the hospital's confines. Clarence gave House something he seriously needed, security. Wilson was pleased. Each step brought House into the world, though not quite yet a part of the world.


	10. Chapter Ten

**CHAPTER X**

"House, stop squirming!"

Wilson was trying to keep his cool, but patience and time were both things he was rapidly running out of. It usually wasn't an issue getting House dressed in the morning, Wilson placed the items on the bed and helped his friend into whatever he was having difficulty with. But, today they had been fighting for the past fifteen minutes, Wilson valiantly trying to get House to quit squirming long enough to get the tie properly tied and House, desperate to be anywhere else at the moment.

"You don't stand still and let me finish this, I won't give you any suckers…and don't give me that look…I'll tell Clarence and you know HE won't give you any if I say so."

That got the desired response.

House stood stock still, pouting as Wilson tied the blue silk cloth into a perfect Windsor knot. A quick glance at his watch confirmed to Wilson he had less than a half hour to get to the courthouse. Today was day one of the trial for one of the prison guards accused of participating in House's torture. This was not the first trial, before the breakdown House had testified in the lawyer's trial and two trials for other prison officials including the warden, but since the catatonia the trials were suspended while House recovered. Unfortunately, the defendant's lawyers argued their client's due process rights were being violated by the delays and the judge had agreed. Neither Wilson, Clarence, the DA, Cuddy, or anyone else House was ever around mentioned the trial in front of him, but somewhere in the reptilian part of House's brain that still functioned normally, he figured out what was going on. Maybe it was the tie, Wilson thought. House hated them with a passion and only wore one when it was absolutely required and even then for the shortest time humanly possible. Whatever it was, House was being impossible this morning, refusing to get dressed and fighting as Wilson was helping him with his shirt and tie.. Wilson fought the soccer ball size knot of nervousness in his stomach as he helped bundle his friend into the car for the short ride to the courthouse. This is a mistake Wilson thought.

Those are some unnaturally shiny boots. It was an interesting thing to think when there were so many more pressing things that he should be focusing on, like the crushing pain in his ribs, or the fact that three more guards had just entered his cell. But no, it was the boots that held House's attention. They were like mirrors; from his up-close and personal position with them he could see in their hi-gloss fronts his ragged features. He inhaled sharply at the emaciated skeleton looking back at him, a move he regretted when the pain of his broken ribs stole his breath. His dad had boots like that. House remembered the long nights when his dad was home. He would sit on the floor flipping through a book or watching television as his father sat in his favorite chair applying polish over and over for hours with a rag, stopping occasionally to light the can of Kiwi or Lincoln Wax on fire to soften it up. His dad had told him the trick to keeping the shine, small circles, hot wax, time, and a good clear coat. "People judge you by your appearance," his father had told him, "You could be the poorest person in the world, but if your shoes are polished, people will listen to you." Later in life House general eschewed dress shoes in favor of more comfortable footwear, but he never forgot how to polish a pair of shoes. He vaguely wondered if Boot Boy's father had taught him the same lessons when the man kneeled down, his sunglassed face inches from House's. House tried not to gag as he smelled the tobacco Boot Boy had packed in his lower lip. "I'm gonna ask you one more time, where did you get the extra sandwich from?"

"Sir, Becks Sir," House rasped

"Beck's says he didn't give it to you. Says you stole it from him."

House began to panic, "Sssir, Bbbecks is lying. He gave it to me."

"I think your lying to me and I don't like liars. I think you're a dirty thieving liar. You know what they do to dirty thieving liars?"

House could imagine

This however was a new one. They took him, handcuffed his arms so they were hanging out the bars of the cell and proceed to break every one of his fingers one by one. The pain was so overwhelming House vomited all over his uniform which both amused and angered his jailors. Finally, after they had broken all his fingers Boot Boy ordered him to stick both arms out of the cell. Pain receptors fired off in overtime as House struggled to move quick enough with his captor's demands. Boot Boy removed his nightstick and with one large swing brought the stick down across House's arms. Pain, like fireworks exploded, before the merciful grip of unconsciousness took over.

It never paid to be right sometimes

"Hey old man," Wilson slid down the wall of the courtroom, tearing a hole in his shirt on the rough brick as he did so. House was sitting, huddled up, hands pressed under his armpits, eyes closed. Around him the remaining members of the courtroom stood watching the drama still unfolding. They sat that way for over a half hour until House calmed down enough to allow Wilson to bring him home.

The guard- Jack Thompson was convicted on all counts and sentenced to life in prison.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**CHAPTER XI**

Though he hoped this morning would be different Wilson knew what faced him when he opened the bedroom door. The bed would be empty, the sheets strewn on the floor marking the path to the corner where House would be curled up asleep, his arms jammed tightly under his armpits, his legs pulled awkwardly to his chest. Walking gently but firmly so as to not startle his friend Wilson went to the corner. Kneeling down, he began rubbing House's back, gently coaxing him awake. Groaning, House uncurled and rolled over to face his friend. It broke Wilson's heart every morning to see his friend like this and wondered what it could be that drove House to the floor every night eschewing the safe confines of the bed for the cold floor.

When Wilson voiced his concerns to Dr. Simpson, the psychiatrist ensured him that House's actions were normal. He mentioned the cases of Vietnam prisoners of war, who slept on the floor for months after their release, the sensation of the soft bed uncomfortable to them after years lying on the hard stone floors of the VC's prisons. "Give it time;" Simpson had told him, "Eventually he will begin to feel comfortable enough to stay in the bed." So every night Wilson led House to the his bed and tucked him in, hoping the warm safe cocoon he made would be enough to convince his friend to stay for one full night. What Wilson didn't know, couldn't know really was the cocoon he created for House was the very thing that drove him to the floor night after night.

"We understand sir, no mistakes." After thirty years, the New Jersey Department of Corrections was about to begin executing death row inmates. The decision had already caused enough controversy in the state and for the past few weeks the warden had to face the crowds of granola eaters parked outside the prison's main gates. The Commissioner of Prisons had just spent the past hour on the phone reiterating the need in language that implied something about the warden's ass in a sling, for nothing to go wrong with this first execution scheduled just one month away. This left the warden with a huge problem. Thirty years ago, the procedures for executions were well known practiced motions, but now there was no one in the prison system who knew how to do one correctly. The warden picked up the phone once again, "Bring up 501," he said to the person on the other end.

"This is your lucky day fuckstick." House couldn't imagine what made this day so special. He had been woken up to the sound of men bursting into his cell and now lay on the floor of the corrective actions wing with what felt like a gorilla pressed on his back while two other officers cuffed his wrists behind his back, "You're being moved."

The ride was short but uneventful. House was made to sit with his head between his knees and with head still down was being quickly ushered into what appeared to be a bathroom. "Strip!" a voice barked at House. House moved quickly to do as he was told, removing the last of his clothes as the jet of cold water hit him, "Turn!" another spray of water and his "shower" was complete. "Get him a shave and haircut; we want him looking good for his big day." The voice laughed at its own little joke. What big day House wondered, his mind spinning at the recent change of events. He understood only when his new clothes were thrust into his hands. Stenciled in bold black letters above his prisoner number was the words DEATH ROW INMATE. House felt his stomach knot at the sight. He wasn't a death row inmate; he had been "spared" the death penalty for Cameron's death. This had to be a mistake he thought frantically, his breath hitching painfully as his pulse jumped skyward. He wasn't meant to die, he couldn't die, to die meant breaking the contract, he wasn't allowed to die. House felt his knees buckling, "Oh for Christ's sake somebody grab him."

When House awoke he found himself sitting on the bed of a single cell. He understood now that he had been transferred to the Death House. The black letters on his shirt and pants mocked him as he stared at them in horror. His mind seized on this new puzzle. He knew that there was no way he would ever leave the prison; his sentence was for life in prison without parole. Theoretically, he could be killed, the prison releasing some cover story about an illness or death at the hands of another prisoner. So engrossed with his thoughts, he didn't see the two guards approach his cell. He jumped when one tapped the bars breaking him out of his thoughts. "Move to the edge of the cell and place your hands through the opening." He did as he was told. The guards were gentler than normal, only applying a slightly more than necessary force to his arms as they guided him out of his cell. "Prisoner 501473 Dead Man Walking." The announcement followed House as he was led down the hall. When they got to the room, House balked. His guards shoved him roughly into the room," Hey you can't do that, no shoving, do it again." The guards led House out of the room, their hands digging deep into his arms, as they painfully led him to the table. The first strap went across his legs. Then his chest was retained, the strap pulled tightly. His breath came in short gasps as his struggled against the heavy leather strap robbing him of the little air he was able to force into his lungs. His arms were strapped out to the side, two leather bands across each. "All right, that's good let him up."

For weeks this went on. Each day House was led to the death chamber, his arms, legs, and chest strapped to the hard table. Over and over again the prison practiced and as the date of the first execution in 30 years approached, the training got more intense. As he lay there, House could feel the cold sting of the needle as it was pressed into the vein of his arm. When the right arm finally gave out, they moved to the left and when that vein gave out they shaved off a patch of hair from each of his legs.

"No word from the governor yet." As the clock on the wall slowly ticked off the seconds, the warden asked if he wanted to say any last words. This was new and the thought sent House into fresh waves of panic. The pulse monitor attached to his finger registered the panic he was feeling. He struggled against the leather straps keeping him to the table as the warden read the execution order. His breath, already in painfully short supply seemed to go away completely as he fought to get out of his bindings. He felt the familiar sting of the needle. As the voice came to the end of the order, he could feel the cold rush of the IV as the liquid poured into his bloodstream. Tears began to leak from his eyes as the darkness crept in around him.

When he awoke hours later, he was back in the corrective actions wing, chained once again to the wall. He wept for hours.

Wilson knew none of this. Every night he tucked his friend into bed, carefully drawing the sheets tight, hoping the safe environment he was trying to create would allow House the sleep he so desperately needed to get better. Every night, House would awaken, the sheets a tangle around his body. He would thrash, sending the blankets, sheets and pillows to the floor as he struggled against the binds, against he leather straps that held him on the brink of death. Wilson knew none of this as he lovingly tucked House in each night only to find his friend huddled on the floor, sweat soaked each morning.


	12. Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

Wilson ran a tired hand across his eyes, trying to wipe the grit that accumulated in the corner of his eyes. He knew from having caught a glimpse of his reflection in the stores glass doors that he looked as bad as he felt. His eyes were sandy and red-rimmed from lack of sleep. He looked, Wilson thought, like he used to back when House and he would stay up all night drinking cheap beer, watching B grade movies while providing a running commentary of the action. Bleary eyed and hung over the two of them would hit up the all night diner near the hospital and load up on T-bone steak and eggs before Wilson would stumble home, hoping he made it in the door before his wife woke up. Wilson laughed softly, covering his mouth with his hand to stifle the sound. He wondered what it said about his own sanity when being hung over was preferable to the present situation. He ran his hand across his face; the stubble sticking to it like burrs reminded him once again just how far from normal his life really was.

It had by the measuring stick that was House's life been a rough night. As Wilson stood in line he tried to figure out what had triggered the nightmares that rocked him out of bed at 3Am only to find House clawing at the door desperate to get out. The night had started well, dinner, a shower and shave for House, pain meds and then bed. House went down like a rock and Wilson settled in to get some well needed rest. He never saw it coming- no whimpering that usually preceded House's nightmares, nothing in the evening to trigger one, just a scream piercing the silent night. It had taken hours to calm House down before as the day broke new, he collapsed too exhausted to continue. Wilson collapsed on House's bed, waking only when the ray of sunlight through the bedroom became too strong to ignore.

A tug on his jeans brought Wilson back from his daydreaming. House was sticking close to him, impervious to either the string that attached the two men or the curious stares of the other patrons in the shop. Like many other things Wilson accepted the stares with a sort of detached indifference. Normally, the two of them had Clarence to act as a buffer, but Clarence was off seeing his family leaving House solely in Wilson's care. As much as he said it didn't bother him, Wilson couldn't deny he looked forward to Monday when Clarence would be back and Wilson could escape to the hospital free to shower, shave and change into clothing that were a little less user-friendly.

Maybe it was longing, or maybe it was nostalgia but something guided Wilson to the little hole in the wall shop near House's place. House used to insist that the place, despite the fact that it was closed for six months (twice) for failing three consecutive inspections served the best burgers and shakes in Princeton. Going out with House was already a risky proposition Wilson figured a little more risk couldn't hurt anything.

"What can I get you?"

"What?" Wilson was so busy trying to unravel House's hands from the back of his shirt he hadn't realized he was next in line

"What can I get you?" The teenaged clerk looked at him with the mixture of boredom and curiosity all teenagers seem to master early on.

"Sorry," Wilson managed to get one of House's hands out from the fabric of his t-shirt, "Two double burgers, one with bacon and two shakes umm medium, one vanilla, one chocolate."

"$12.70, your order number is five."


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen:

Everybody lies. Friends, lovers, parents, patients. It's the guiding principle by which I've lived my life and one which has never led me wrong.

Until now.

I let them walk into my life and take it from me. Take it all on one lie.

No, take isn't the right word. They stole it from me. Took my life, my health, my friends, my livelihood, Cameron, all stolen from me…all stolen for a lie.

I believed them

Sitting in prison chained to the fucking wall I had nothing but time to recall her face, to bring up the name and face of the person I killed.

But I didn't kill her. They told me I did and I believed them. I believed it and it was all a lie. All the evidence proved otherwise. I am the doctor that comes in when all else is bleak but even I can't save everyone and honestly, when I was sitting there I couldn't recall her face. The face of the person I killed. They told me I did and I believed it. I believed it and it was all a lie. All the evidence proved otherwise, but the actions and consequences showed different. Every time I got close to the real truth I got beaten, abused, made to suffer. Cameron, prison, all of it was a lie to convince me I deserved what was happening to me.

And it was all a lie.

And I believed it.

I believed I was nothing. I believed I was New Jersey Department of Corrections prisoner number 501743, murderer, life in prison without parole. They told me it was true. But it wasn't true. I was no more responsible for Rachel Thompson's death than the fever that ultimately took her life. They took everything from me-my career, my friends, my very identity till I was nothing and I believed them.

I'm scared. I want to believe it is all over but I am so afraid. How do you come back when everything you have known has been a lie?

But James is real. Every night Wilson is there for me and here he is now leading me into one of the greasiest burger joints in all of Princeton. I have no idea what possessed Wilson to come to this place, normally you wouldn't find him within 100 miles of a place like this but here he is ordering food for us, for me, and he has been here everyday since I got out of prison.

He's real

"Here."

The shake is cold and thick just the way I like it. It's also chocolate. That son of a bitch

"Fuck it Jimmy, you know I like strawberry!"

If you asked me what happened next I honestly couldn't have told you. One minute I am standing there glaring at Wilson the next there is a cold mess of ice cream running down the front of my shirt as Wilson envelopes me in a big bear hug, the shakes crushed between us. Suddenly Wilson pulls away and holding me firmly by the forearms, stares at me intently. It's a bit unnerving, truth be told, the way he is staring at me like I am a slide in the microscope of a 10-year-old boy.

"Wait, why did you come back?"

I'm squirming under his gaze. Of all of the questions why this one? There is no way that he would believe that I came back because of a chocolate shake.

"You were looking a bit down."

The look on Wilson's face tells me there is not a snowballs chance in hell he believes me and we will be having this discussion again but for now he lets go of my arms.

"Jimmy?"

"Yeah"

"Why am I tied to you?"


	14. Chapter Fourteen

A/N- This chapter and the next were inspired in part by Alex51324's LJ story **Pencils are Dangerous**. Chapter 40 is here http://alex51324. but you can get to the rest of the chapters on Alex's Journal.

Lifeline- Chapter Fourteen

"House, hey House - wake up."

Wilson gently shook House's shoulder, loathe to wake the sleeping man but working under a deadline that was fast approaching.

House woke slowly, a look of pain crossing his face as he slid from his prone position on the couch to a more upright sitting position. He eyed Wilson, his gaze drifting from the other man's face to the stack of papers clutched in his left hand. Icy fingers ran down his back. Men bearing paperwork had not been kind to House these past few years and old habits were hard to break. Wilson noticed his friend's discomfort and moved quickly to dispel the tension in the room.

"Settlement paperwork," Wilson tilted the papers in House's direction. The letterhead bore the name of the law firm Wilson had retained to handle the lawsuits against the State of New Jersey and the Thompson estate. The state settlement Wilson had accepted on House's behalf while he was ill. The fact was House needed immediate medical and psychological care and the state's settlement assured all current and future medical and mental health care would be taken care of. The settlement also included a sizeable cash payment, one Wilson noted with disgust at the time denied any responsibility of the state for what happened yet acknowledging that a wrong was done. The cash payout covered injury, loss of income, and the false imprisonment. It was a considerable sum and with proper management House could live a comfortable life for a long time.

The Thompson settlement Wilson deferred making a decision on. This one, he felt was House's decision to make. The state money was a more pressing matter. The fact was, House needed immediate medical attention but the decision about Thompson's money was House's to make if and when he regained his sanity. The matter was in arbitration, both sides agreeing to come to a private settlement to avoid the spectacle that a very public trial would bring. Wilson had delayed the proceedings during House's catatonia, but the defendants were now arguing that he was in a state of mind that allowed him to make a decision and they were clamoring for a quick resolution. The paper in Wilson's hand was their offer.

"House, Thompson's estate," Wilson noticed House stiffen at the dead man's name, his hand reaching down to unconsciously rub at the thick band of scar tissue on his left wrist. It was an unconscious move but one Wilson knew House did when he was too upset to voice his discomfort, "They have made a settlement offer and want to hear from you. It's in the letter; the Thompson family wants to settle this quickly."

"How much?"

"$15 million."

House regarded the other man closely. His expression was neutral, hard to read, but his eyes burned with an intensity that Wilson had not seen in a while. When House finally spoke it was low, his voice heavy with anger.

"Robert Thompson was a billionaire worth what at his death? $1.5 billion? He spent a small fortune, what was it again? Oh yeah, $15 million for his revenge, to make the last five years of my life a living hell and this is what they offer me!" Wilson can't react as House reached over, snatching the paper from his hand. Shocked, he watched as House crumpled the papers into a ball and sent the wad flying across the room. House lacked the strength to make the ball tight and the papers come apart in mid-air and fluttered down to ground. It took Wilson a second until he was able to speak again.

"We can counteroffer. Ask for more … ask for concessions… "

House cut him off, his expression once again neutral. "I want to know how." He said it so quick and soft Wilson missed it the first time.

"Excuse me?"

"I want to know how they arrived at that number. I want to meet with the Thompson family and have Mrs. Thompson look me in the eye and explain how the rest of my life is worth what her husband spent to make my last five years a living hell."

"House, I don't think that is a good idea."

"Wilson, frankly I don't give a damn if you think it is a good idea or not. Make it happen!"


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Wilson glanced across the table at his friend. House sat stiffly in the chair his hands lying crossed on the table, the sleeves of his jacket covering his wrists. Wilson had bought the jacket when House was first out of prison but was still surprised when House had insisted on wearing it to the meeting. Normally House would rather volunteer for clinic duty than wear a jacket but sitting there Wilson understood perfectly why House had chosen to wear it. The sleeves of the jacket were slightly long and covered the remaining scars on his wrists not already covered by his shirt sleeves. It was hot in the little room and Wilson knew it would get even more uncomfortable but he also knew better than to ask if House wanted to remove his coat. Behind and to House's right Clarence sat in one of the extra chairs brought in for the meeting. He had worn all black and with his closely shorn hair Wilson had to agree with House's assessment that the man looked like "a serious homie." Even though Wilson knew Clarence was incapable of hurting a fly he had to admit to himself he would probably be afraid to run into the man on a darkened street. Wilson knew Clarence had done it for House's benefit and appreciated the other man all the more.

Wilson looked at his watch and snorted softly. Thompson's party was over 45 minutes late for the meeting. For a group that was eager to push House for a settlement they sure dragged out this meeting Wilson thought. Thompson's lawyers made and cancelled two previous meetings and now 2 months later were nearly an hour late. It was already hot in the room and Wilson was starting to get concerned the hard chairs were causing House undue discomfort. He thought back to that morning as he got helped get House dressed.

"Here." Wilson held out the small cup of pill and a plastic cup of water. House's hands trembled even more than usual as he grabbed the two cups. While he would never say it out loud Wilson knew House feared this day and he had planned for it.

"Why Jimmy, there is a virtual party in here," House shook the cup of pills and regarded its contents with his good eye. Wilson hoped there wouldn't be a fight but he had slipped a mild sedative into House's usual cocktail of antibiotics, vitamins, and pain medication. The fact remained that while House was legally sane he still suffered from panic attacks and Wilson figured meeting the widow of the man who had you tortured for year's was for anyone a potentially bolt able situation, "I'm not taking this." House's lips were pulled tight across his face set in a manner that suggested to anyone involved he considered the manner closed.

"It's just a mild sedative. A little something to take the edge off."

"Take the edge off is just polite way of saying make me fuzzy. I'm not taking it."

"House," Wilson placed his hand on the back of his neck and massaged the muscles, "If you freak out then we will have to do this again plus their lawyer will say you're not right to make this decision. You don't want to give them any ammunition do you?" Wilson knew he had the other man. For all of House's bluff and bluster deep down he was a man driven by logic and a need to know. Wilson watched as House gripped the cup, tilted his head back and swallowed the pills. "Come on let's finished getting you dressed. Clarence is almost done with breakfast."

"I can finish up; you go see if Clarence needs any help." When Wilson went back to the bedroom to look for House's jacket he found the pill sitting in a sticky mess in the bottom of the cup.

"They're not going to show. Why don't we," Wilson was interrupted as the door to the room opened and 2 men and a woman entered. Wilson and Clarence rose and as the lawyers made their apologies Mrs. Thompson made her way around the room shaking everyone's hands. When she made her way to House he had neither risen nor made any attempt to take the offered hand. After a moment Mrs. Thompson let her hand drop and took her seat across the table from House.

Amanda Thompson was not an unattractive woman. She was tall about 5'8'' House guessed, slim with long legs and arms. Her hair was shoulder length, pulled back with a large clip. Her hands were folded in front of her, her nails painted a tasteful shade of red. She was in all appearance the consummate professional woman. Beneath it House saw the truth, the skin that aged rapidly by grief, the lines of grey dotting her brunette hair and the eyes that hid all of the pain. House found himself studying the woman taking in all the details. He was so engrossed in his assessment he failed to notice Thompson's was looking at him. The two caught eyes, their stares locked for a brief moment before House looked away.

Thompson's lead lawyer Jones or Jerry or some thing House hadn't really been paying attention cleared his throat and began to speak, "We are here to determine a fair and equitable settlement suffered by Gregory House."

"I want to know how."

"Excuse me," the lawyer shifted in his seat, "I'm sorry I missed that. You want to know how?"

"I want to know how you and your lawyers came to 15 million dollars. How my life, my livelihood, reputation, and health are worth 15 million dollars."

"Mr. House"

"Doctor! That's another thing your client's husband tried to take from me."

"I don't see how this has anything to do with any offer. The estate acknowledges the wrongs done by the deceased and has offered a fair deal."

"I want her to explain to me how 15 million can even begin to be considered a fair deal."

"Dr. House," the lawyer began but Mrs. Thompson stopped him with a hand on the arm."

"It's okay Jack, if this is what Dr. House wants in order to put this behind us then he has every right to it."


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Wilson watched House closely as he followed every move Thompson made

Wilson watched House closely as he followed every move Thompson made. Amanda Thompson reached down next to her chair and removed the black bag lying there. Reaching in she removed a small black tri-fold, opened it and removed a series of photos. The first photo Amanda placed on the table was of a young girl wearing a softball uniform posed in the type of picture parents bought at the end of the season. The girl's smile was bright; her eyes glowing with the mischievous glint young children come by naturally. The next picture caught both Wilson and House by surprise. Amanda placed a slightly larger photo of the same girl a few years older, her arm slung around the shoulders of an older man. Wilson inhaled sharply at the image of House's nemesis Robert Thompson smiling back at them. Wilson slid his glance across the table where House sat, a thin line of sweat breaking out at his hairline.

"Rachel was our youngest. Robert and I had two other children, a boy and a girl. We hadn't planned on having any more children but I guess God or Mother Nature had other ideas." Amanda gives out a small laugh but neither Wilson nor House laughed. House, Wilson notes is still staring at the photos, his eyes staring straight ahead at Robert Thompson's face. "When I was at 7 months I fell doing the laundry and went into labor. Rachael was born prematurely; her lungs hadn't fully developed. She was in the hospital for over a month. At one point she got an infection and almost died, but she was a fighter. Robert was great. The whole time she was in the hospital he would stay with her, whispering to her, he never told me what he said to her, but when he was there she did better, you could tell they had a bond even at that age. It was always Robert and Rachael." Amanda laughed, "Robert called her his little shadow, and she was, everywhere Robert went you could be sure Rachael wanted to go. Robert taught Rachael to play baseball. He was All-State through High School and played Varsity in college, he always wanted someone to play with, our other two children just never showed an interest. That photo," Amanda's hand brushed the smaller of the photos, "Was taken when Rachel was 11. She was the first girl ever to play in the all-boys league and made the All-Star team. That photo," Amanda's hand slid towards the larger photo, "Was taken Rachel's freshman year of High School. I know that a lot of people thought that when Rachel ended up in the hospital that night it was the first time she had seen a doctor." Amanda looked up and stared directly at House who continued to stare at the picture of Thompson and his daughter, "it wasn't. Rachel had been feeling ill for a few days. We had taken her to the doctors earlier. They said it was just the flu going around and to give her lots of liquids. The next day she was so ill. We took her to the Princeton General this time. They said it was the flu and to give her fluids and keep her in bed. All along doctors dismissed us. You were right Dr. House, by the time she got to you; there was nothing that could be done. The infection had spread all throughout her body." Amanda's hands trembled slightly as she fought to hold back the tears, " I guess if you are a patient with a fever during flu season most doctors will think to look for the flu but no one not one doctor thought it was anything else. A simple blood test we were told later would have found it. We sued the doctors, the hospital." This got House's attention and he looked up from the photo, Funny he thought, I usually remember cases where I get sued. His mind wandered as he thought back to the days before. He missed what Amanda said next coming back to the conversation in time to hear the last of her sentence.

"We settled with the doctors and the hospital. After lawyers fees and Rachel's insurance payout we received 15 million dollars."

Almost on cue Wilson and Clarence gasped as the implications of Amanda's words began to sink in. Wilson slid his look over to House. The other man sat stiffly, his eyes wide and his face drained of all its color. Wilson reached out and laid a hand gently on his friend's arm. House flinched slightly under the touch. He gulped a few times trying to collect his thoughts while fighting down the anger and panic that settled like a band around his chest threatening to overtake him. He swallowed one more time," What happened to your daughter was tragic but ultimately no one's fault. Your husband murdered an innocent woman, took my body, my mind, my job and my friends. Sent me to jail where he bribed half the staff to make my life an ever living hell and you're gonna sit here and tell me these two things are even remotely equal. You're as crazy as he was!" House spit the words out.

"Dr. House, you're here, my daughter is dead," Thompson's stare was firm her words cut like ice through both House and Wilson.

"Doctors tried to save her."

"Doctors failed!"

"So that deserved this?" House held up one hand, the tremor even more pronounced than usual. With his other hand House pointed to his face and neck the scars white against his skin. The sleeve cuff of his jacket fell back showing the thick band of scar tissue around his wrist. Thompson's eyes briefly locked on House's wrist. Wilson watched as the facade faded briefly. Just as quickly though it was back," My daughter is dead. Her life was worth 15 million. You're still here. Yes, Dr. House I do think they are equal."

"I guess we will let the court decide then."

"I guess we will. Now, if you will excuse me I must be going now. Please accept me apologies for not offering any goodbyes." Wilson watched as Thompson and her lawyers quickly rose and exited. He turned back in time to see House lean over and retch all over the carpet.

--

A/N- Sorry for the delay-been having a lot of health and work related stuff going on in the past few weeks. Don't worry I still have more chapters coming.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

"That fucking bitch

"That fucking bitch!" Wilson spat the words out rapid fire as his hand slammed down repeatedly on the steering wheel punctuating each word of the outburst, "She's obviously looking for a court battle. We'll give her a court battle. A jury takes one look at…" Wilson's words trailed off as the meaning of his words hit him. Both men clearly remembered the last time House's outward appearance was used to make a point. It was not a moment either looked forward to replaying anytime soon.

"I'm just saying. I can't see why she would even want to go through with a court hearing."

Wilson glanced over to the passenger seat. House was sitting quietly; his eyes closed his head lying against the doorframe. His face was drawn and more pale than usual. Wilson couldn't tell if House was asleep or just ignoring him.

"I'll call our attorney in the morning to see what we need to do to get this moving."

"What does it matter?"

"What?"

"What does it matter? We go through this case. Then we'll go through the worker's comp case. What does it matter? All the money in the world isn't going to change what happened."

"House look at me." Wilson pulled the car over to the side of the road and sat looking at his passenger. House for his part continued to look straight ahead, his eyes closed, his head still resting against the door jam, "House, look at me." House lazily turned his head, one eye focusing on Wilson, one blank. It still unnerved Wilson no matter how many times he saw it, "I think you deserve everything that you can get. I think that you should take that bitch for everything she and her psycho husband had. I think you should get what you can from the state as well and anyone else who had any part at all in this."

"Again, what does it matter? It's not going to give me back my health, or my reputation or anything else. You think I don't notice the way people look at me. I'm a walking fucking billboard of pathetic."

"House!" Wilson regretted the outburst almost as soon as it left his mouth as House flinched sharply against his headrest. His tone softened immediately, "I think that you should take the money and do with it what ever you want. Go on a trip, set up a scholarship, fund a clinic…fuck I don't know…take the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building and share it with all of lower Manhattan…you deserve that much."

"I'll think about it."

"And I'll call our lawyer tomorrow morning."

It shouldn't have come as a surprise but midway through the night Wilson was jolted awake as a scream pierced the night.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

_The room was brighter than he remembered it ever being. But maybe, just maybe everything became brighter on the way to one's execution. Maybe the bright lights everyone saw, as they were about to die was just an optical trick, and increase of blood to the brain causing everything to look shinier, brighter, more alive. He shook his head; he would have laughed had he been allowed to and had the situation not been so dire. Gregory House MD, the only man who could face his execution thinking about the brain's final minutes. He knew this one was for real; it was no drill, no excuse for the guards to toss his cell and himself with it. This time the warden himself had come down to Death Row; read the final execution orders and summoned the guards to remove him from his cell. The walk was the same as it always was, 35 choppy steps to the door, five steps to the gurney, two slight moves of his upper body and legs to get into position, three straps across the arms, three across the torso, three across the legs, one alcohol swipe on the arm, one injection, zero chance of a governor's stay. He had been through it so many times before it was almost routine, almost commonplace. But today, today something felt different, something felt off. It wasn't the feeling he was going to die. He had come to terms with his eventual death. No, it was something he couldn't put his finger on._

_That was it. It was the hands. He was used to rough, large hands. Hands that held him down and beat him and pushed and pulled him, held him up as more hands drove fists into his stomach. These hands were different, smaller, suppler, almost in a way kinder hands. It shouldn't be this way and the thought terrified him. It should be rough. It was always rough. What is going on now? His heart was racing, the monitors were screeching, he's going to stroke before they even administered the first drugs. A face appeared in his line of sight. It is her face. She leaned over and whispered in his ear, "It's okay Greg, tell Robert I said hello when you see him again." He looks transfixed as Amanda Thompson pulled back the plunger on the vial and injected the poison into his IV line._

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The scream ricocheted off the walls of the room and down the hall, shaking Wilson from his sleep. He stumbled down the hall and forced open the door. House was sitting up straight in bed, rigid and dripping with sweat. His eyes were wide, transfixed on the images in his head. Wilson made his way quickly over to the bed. He grabbed his friend, shaking him gently in an attempt to wake him from his nightmare. House pulled back, his face pale, his breathing ragged.

"House, listen to me, it's okay. It's only a dream. Wake up."

House just shook his head frantically from side to side, unable or unwilling to break out of the grip of his memories.

"House, you have to wake up. I need you to wake up!"

House stopped shaking his head turning to look at Wilson. His eyes opened wider, as though he was only just now seeing who was really in front of him.

"She wasn't there, but I saw her, I saw her there, she was there in the room, I saw her she was there." House was rambling, his words slurring as he fumbled over the thoughts rushing through his brain. Wilson struggled to get the situation under control.

"Who House? Who was there?"

"Amanda Thompson, she was there. She was there in the jail, and she was a part of it all."

"House, no. House she wasn't there. You're imagining this, but it's not true. You know it's not true. You have to fight this."

Wilson felt the fear go out of House and the older man's shoulder slumped as he drew a shaky hand across his sweat stained face. He looked up at Wilson eyes red and heavy with unshed tears, "It felt real enough."

-------

Thank You to JuliaBohemian for being my beta reader. I am sure this dedication will have as many errors as the original draft did.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Lifeline Chapter 19

Cuddy wished for the simpler time before House's arrest when she didn't have to cringe every time the phone rang. The call today had been pleasant enough to start with.

"Dr. Cuddy, it's Joe Roberts from the FBI."

"Agent Roberts, it's good to hear from you," Cuddy kept her tone breezy and light. Joe Roberts along with his partner George Matthews were responsible for untangling the many threads of Thompson's web. Cuddy and Roberts had developed a mutual appreciation which bloomed into a mutual attraction but later fizzled into a mutual friendship and concern for House.

"I hope this is a social call?"

"I wish it was." Cuddy sobered up quickly.

"We have some information that I think you and Dr. Wilson need to know." For two years since House's release Roberts had been steadily working through the many leads and angles of the Thompson scheme. Roberts frequently butted heads with the FBI brass who wanted the case closed. Roberts for his part wanted justice for the scared broken man he had taken out of that jail cell

It seemed to Cuddy that, no sooner did it look like the ordeal was finally behind them, than Roberts and Matthews would find yet another person, or another bank account, or another whatever that dragged everyone back into the quagmire once again. The news Roberts told her left her so stunned that she sat for nearly an hour before picking up the phone with shaking hands to call Wilson.

"We have to tell him." Cuddy stared across her desk where Wilson stood. His features were pinched, his hand gripping his nose trying to stave off the tension headache that was building behind his eyes. Cuddy felt bad for him. She knew how much the ordeal had affected Wilson physically. Throughout House's two trials Wilson suffered from crippling migraine headaches. The pain made it hard for him even to see straight but he battled it to go to court. Since House's release he still suffered from headaches, the dull constant reminder of the strain of taking care of his best friend.

"I wouldn't even begin to know how to tell him about this." Wilson closed his eyes, willing the headache to go away.

"Technically, it belongs to the hospital. But, it really should belong to him. It's a part of Thompson's assets."

"He hasn't settled with the estate yet," Wilson shrugged his shoulders in defeat. "We could just not tell him."

"He'd find out one way or another. This whole deal is bound to come out. Besides, it's not like we can just go, "Like the new paint job in pediatrics? Thompson paid for it.' No, he has to know."

"I'll tell him. Just…just give me some time." Wilson held up his hands in a pleading manner. "Try to keep this as quiet as you can. I'll tell him when it's right."

With that Wilson exited Cuddy's office leaving Cuddy to fall back into her leather chair. She placed her head into her hands trying to keep the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes at bay How do you tell someone the very hospital they worked in had received blood money?

AN: Wow 2 years since my last update. This chapter was written in Port au Prince Haiti. That now makes four countries that I have written a chapter of this story in. I know it has been five months since the earthquake but Haiti is still in desperate need. If you have the ability please consider donating to one of the many charities that are helping to rebuild. Many thanks go to Hibernia1 my beta editor. More chapters on the way, I promise.


	20. Chapter 20

Wilson knocked softly on the office door before entering. House was sitting at his desk, an open file spread out before him. Wilson noted the deep lines of pain that had etched their selves in House's forehead. Despite the pain, Wilson knew House frequently refused to take his full compliment of pain medicine when working on a case. By the looks of the papers and books spread across the desktop and spilling onto the floor it wasn't hard to see the case wasn't going well.

"Hey, why don't you take a break and come and eat some lunch?" Wilson gestured to the Styrofoam container and cup in his hand. He sat down at the table in the corner taking care to not upset the pile of books and files as he moved them to the floor to make way for the containers. He tried not to look obvious as he watched while House pushed himself back from his desk. With a grimace and barely muffled grunt of pain House lifted himself to his full height and put his arms through the opening of the metal arm canes. Limping heavily House made his way slowly to the table and with a sigh sunk down into the rich leather chair. Wilson gestured to the piles of books and papers, "How is the case going?" He knew based on the condition of House's office what the answer would be but wanted to see how the older man would spin it.

"Not well." House admitted. Wilson was shocked to hear his friend tell the truth. It used to be House would bluff and bluster and spin the news to hide the difficulties. The fact that he was calmly stating the difficulties of the case was just one more reminder of how different things had changed Wilson thought.

House went on not noticing the look that flashed across his friend's face, "She has brain, lung, and heart involvement but nothing to connect them. We've ruled out environmental, bacterial, and genetic causes." House rubbed his fingers against his temples, "If we don't figure it out soon she won't last must longer."

Wilson pushed the box across the table, "Here eat. You need to take a break and recharge your batteries." As House took a bite Wilson noted the haunted look in the older man's eye. House would work himself sick trying to come up with the solution. He made a mental note to up the amount of sleeping medication he gave him that evening.

The next day broke clear, blue and mild. The extra sleep House received the night before had done the trick. He figured out the case of his patient's symptoms and was busying regaling Wilson with the results that evening over a simple dinner of ziti and garlic bread.

"She has gone on a business trip overseas and some flowers she received from the client had a bug in them. She never even thought about the bite."

"So she's going to be okay then?"

"She'll be fine. A strong course of antibiotics and we'll keep her for a few days but it should clear right up." House shook his head in wonder and laughed softly. Wilson laughed along with his friend and smiled at how relaxed House looked for the first time in a week. He mentally berated himself for what he had to do next and after arguing silently for a few minutes he took a deep breath and began.

"House we have to talk." Wilson watched as House sobered right up and stiffened a thin line of sweat breaking out across his forehead. "Whoa, calm down." He knew he was already on thin ice. House looked like any second he would bolt but there was no getting around the news. He had to know what Roberts had discovered about Thompson's money donations to the hospital. Slowly, carefully he laid out what Joe had discovered taking care all the while to monitor House's reactions. For his part Greg sat in stony silence his face devoid of any emotion or hint as to what he was thinking or feeling. Had it not been for a small flinch at Thompson's name at the beginning Wilson couldn't be totally sure House was even listening. Finally he spoke.

"Did it do any good?" House asked not looking at Wilson but directing the question to the table looking somewhere between the butter dish and the salt and peppershaker. Wilson leaned in, "Excuse me?"

"The money did it do any good?" Wilson was surprised at the question but in keeping with what he and Cuddy discussed answered honestly.

"Yes, yes it did. It did a lot of good Greg." Wilson smiled, "You know how Cuddy is. She can take a donation and stretch it until it squeaks." House flinched and Wilson immediately regretted his poor choice of words. He had forgotten that stretching House's arms till they came out of their sockets had been one of Thompson and the prison warden's favorite forms of entertainment. House rose roughly from the table, his chair falling over backwards in his haste. He grabbed his arms canes and pushed his arms through the openings, "In that case leave it where it is. Maybe it can help save one little girl." With that House fled the kitchen. By the time Wilson made it to Greg's bedroom he found it locked and House retching violently in the bathroom.


End file.
